


The Masterpiece

by ObsessedtwibrarianOTB



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Flash Fic, Homicide, Horror, Necrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 06:43:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7034122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsessedtwibrarianOTB/pseuds/ObsessedtwibrarianOTB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it. —Andy Warhol</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Masterpiece

**Author's Note:**

> This flash fic was written off a dialogue prompt: "Do you ever think we should just stop doing this?" (990 words)

He gathered his tools and meticulously laid them out on the table, not by size or shape or color, but by which order he would use them. There was beauty in his methods and preparations, but he knew not everyone would agree. What would those puritans he worked with during the day think of his secret evening pursuits? He smiled arrogantly as he thought of the shock, the horror, and even the disgust that would take over their faces. They would wonder how a man of such refinement and sophistication could sink to such lows. He wondered that himself sometimes.

What caused him to behave this way? Obviously something in his brain had misfired somewhere along the line, but he was hard pressed to name the exact moment he’d morphed into what he was now. In the beginning, he’d spent many an hour searching books and online articles for an explanation, but had come away from the exercise with more questions than answers. The human mind was so complex that not even science could fully explain its inner workings.

Was he a psychopath? His research said no. He had to admit he _did_ exhibit abnormal or violent social behavior, but never in public. He indulged himself only in the privacy of his home. He _was_ aggressive, but again, only in highly structured circumstances of his own choosing. He certainly wasn’t unstable; he was the most controlled human being he knew.

Was he a sociopath? Again, his research said no. He _did_ exhibit anti-social behavior quite frequently, but that was because he hated people in general; there was nothing wrong with that, in his opinion. He’d ruled out being a sociopath because he had a conscience. He felt extremely guilty if the evening turned out badly, since it was his job to control what happened in this room.

 _Why are you wasting time indulging in this ridiculous introspection?? You know what you are._ Yes, his extensive research had pointed him in a direction he’d initially resisted. Sexual deviant.

The moniker had unsettled him at first, but he'd finally accepted that he couldn’t rule it out; he exhibited all the symptoms—with a couple of understandable variations—frequency being the main one. He could only contrive so many “holidays” to his mountain retreat without raising the suspicions of his co-workers and supervisors. Societal pressures frequently forced him to deny his body and mind what it so desperately needed, and he resented that quite often. Yet, he was proud of the fact that he had more self-discipline in his little finger than the weekend lushes he worked with had in their entire bodies. He considered his level of restraint to be pretty damned admirable, actually. If given free reign, he could have left a seriously profound mark upon this world, but even _he_ knew that such unrestrained lasciviousness was socially unacceptable.

He was a rarity—all of the research said as much—and rarity, by its very nature, denoted a certain level of prestige. Rarity deserved _acceptance_ , not decades of worthless studies done by pointy-head researchers who couldn’t see the forest for the trees. His needs were pure, and they absolutely _were_ consensual, no matter what the research said. All life on this planet consented to eventually be consumed the very second it became animate. It was the _method_ of that final consumption that elevated mankind above the animals. Humans could be so deliciously creative.

He sighed. He was so misunderstood.

“Do you ever think we should just stop doing this?”

She couldn’t answer, of course, but then he’d not expected one. Even without the gag, she had nothing to say that interested him. But he had discovered recently that he enjoyed conversing aloud with himself—a bit of pre-climactic word play, if you will. He liked to imagine someone else in the room watching him, a person capable of understanding the merit, the _beauty,_ of what was about to happen.

_“Not at all. It’s interesting, enjoyable even. But, quite honestly, you’re being a bit melodramatic tonight. That’s not like you.”_

He accepted the criticism with grace. “The foreplay _has_ gone on a little too long this time, hasn’t it?”

_“Foreplay isn’t the problem; it has no set time-limit. It’s your introspection I find tedious. It serves no purpose.”_

“There is nothing wrong with engaging in a bit of soul searching occasionally. Self-awareness is an admirable trait.”

_“’It is what it is’, as they like to say these days.”_

Good point. No amount of self-analysis would change anything. _Time for the climax._

“I’m afraid that the foreplay is over, my dear.”

The whites of her eyes lit up the room with terror. _Exquisite._ He allowed his gaze to slowly wander over her body, savoring the memory of the pleasure each wound had given him. His body was coiled tight, anticipating the finale, that climactic moment when his flesh became one with hers.

“It’s been lovely, this relationship of ours. I will never forget it.”

The gag muffled her scream. The blade silenced her voice forever, slicing like silk across the skin of her throat. On impulse, he cut her femoral arteries as well. He stepped back and admired his handiwork, and also to avoid the crimson splatters. He smiled, suddenly feeling a strange kinship with Jackson Pollock. He’d inadvertently created a work of art this time. He stared in awe.

_“It’s a beautiful masterpiece, my friend, but it’s missing a certain something, don’t you think?”_

He chuckled softly at his own wit. What was missing was his unique—no, his _rare_ —signature. No painting was complete without one. He slowly removed his clothing, piece by piece, patiently watching and anticipating that exquisite moment when the vessel of his pleasure finally rid itself of its life force.

When the body cooled, he mounted the table, eager to complete his masterpiece and become one flesh with his creation.


End file.
